The Christmas Spirit
by quoth-the-pigeon
Summary: Russia finds himself spending Christmas Eve alone, but a Spirit takes pity on him tries to guide him to a less lonely holiday. RussiaxAmerica


A Christmas Story for Vyke13. Happy Holiday.

* * *

**The Christmas Spirit**

Winter was bitter with thin anemic snowflakes erupting into Russia's face with every gust of wind. Above him, somewhere within the white haze was the tall church tower slowly tolling the city bells, calling to any insane man or woman prowling about the city that it was Christmas Eve, for Christ's sake! Go home! Russia growled at the nearly invisible steeple before lowering his head and crossing his arms to try and retain some of the warmth that his thin dinner jacket struggled to hold. He had left his greatcoat within the tavern he had been drinking and eating at, an idiotic mishap that would have left a normal man with frostbitten fingers and cracked teeth from the deadly chill that worked its way into their bones. Russia gave a bitter smile at that. At least there was a small plus to being a nation. For most northern nations today would be a bit nippy, for him, it was simply another annoyance he really wished he did not have to deal with.

Christmas Eve was already in shambles. It had started with his boat. The damned thing had something broken with it which left Russia stranded in New York, the half built city littered in grey snow, rather than his own home. Not that he would have been able to celebrate Christmas at home, any way. Diplomatic duties and such. Ah, at least there had been a small bright spot to his day. The tavern had happened to been hosting a few wayward seamen, Russian men who had stopped to warm both their bodies and stomachs before venturing home to meet with their wives and children. For many, the buildings the immigrants called houses were paper-thin and drafty enough to put out most of the candles found burning within the walls. For him, it had been a nice change to un-pop the tight jacket, roll up his shirtsleeves, and sing a shanty or two with a glass of cheap vodka.

At the pinnacle of joyousness he had felt while stuck here in New York, the tavern had shooed them out crying 'Christmas Eve' and shuttered its doors. It had taken about ten minutes of walking though the city that he had realized his coat was missing and the wind was getting bitterer as each minute ticked on. He could have turned around to retrieve it, maybe either asking the innkeeper kindly or simply breaking the door down, but it was only his coat and it was cold enough that all he wished to do was to go back to his hotel room and sleep through Christmas Day.

Russia looked up as he heard the clatter of a horse's hooves from behind, and he stepped under the pale yellow glow of a street lamp, watching the snow swirl under it's bronze halo of light as he paused to discern where, in fact, he was. The buildings all looked the same with the white snow blurring the city. Damn. He wasn't lost, but he was taking a way that was making it longer than his trip should have taken. In fact, he seemed to be near America's New York home. A quiet brownstone within the heart of the city, with a stooping elm that protected the carved stoop. It was a beautiful home, and perhaps a bit extravagant to Russia's own taste, but compared with all of the palatial homes that the other European nations seemed to have tucked away or have lived in through the years, it was rather modest. America had of course invited him to have Christmas dinner after hearing that he was going to be in the city for the holiday. Russia had declined the exuberant invitation.

It wasn't that they were on bad terms; perhaps it was more of the opposite that Russia had turned down the Christmas dinner offer. He and America were good friends, perhaps even greater than that if Russia allowed his feelings to reign over his head. Russia looked to the bay window of America's home, where sprigs of green roping could bee seen peeking past the white curtains. Inside was lit with a cheery glow of bright yellow firelight and Russia could only imagine how warm the home could be. For a moment, Russia wanted to knock on his door and enter the home. He took a step forward, listening to his shoes crunch in the snow. No doubt America was being merry with other friends though, joyous and gay in the yuletide way. Stowing his hands into his pockets, Russia turned away and continued his path through the snowy night.

He began to chastise himself as he continued on his way to the hotel. It was dangerous to be in such deep affection for the other nation, especially when it was clear that his feelings were not reciprocated. America's smile may have been as bright as the sun, and his laughter as warm as sunshine, but all that it left Russia was wanting for more, and the inevitable coldness that followed the gaps between correspondences. It was better to be in state of mildness consistently than to be vacillating between the two extremes. It was as Russia continued his walk, deep in thoughts of the matters of his heart when he felt something crash into the side of his leg. Startled, he stepped back and looked down. A small child sat shivering in the snow, looking just as startled as Russia did. He wore a white frock, and his cheeks and fingers were bitten red with the cold. He was bare foot, Russia noted and bent down to the small child's level. Large fat tears were welled up in the boy's bright blue eyes and began to stream down his pale face as he asked, "Are you all right?"

The boy's face continued to drip with tears and Russia muttered under his breath, peeling off his dinner jacket and quickly wrapping it around the boy's shoulders, picking him off the snowy ground. "Where are your parents?" he asked, looking about the deserted street, as if there would be a mother waiting in the shadows. The child continued to cry, hiccupping in his distress and Russia walked to the sidewalk where there was a shop awning in blue. It wasn't warm, and the store was still closed, but at least the ground was not covered in snow and it sheltered them somewhat from the bitter winds that stirred the drifts. "Hush now," Russia said softer, careful not to scare the boy, "Where is your family? And your shoes?" As his gloved hands grazed over the sleeves of the boy's frock, he noted it was only a light summer blend of rough cotton. As he waited for the boy to calm down, wrapped up in Russia's jacket, he noted just how remarkably alike he looked to America when he had been a child. He had only met him a few times, and perhaps that had been the cause of delay for his recognition. The child didn't look somewhat like him, but exactly. There was even the stubborn strand of hair that poked up.

"M-my mom is g-gone," the child finally managed to whimper, snapping Russia out of his thoughts.

"Your mother?" Russia said, again glancing about the dark and empty streets. Where had he even come from?

Suddenly the child was tugging on his arm, nearly tripping over the dangling coat as he hurriedly tried to sprint towards a darkened ally. He continued to tug on Russia's shirtsleeves and managed to slip from the nation's grip, disappearing behind the corner. Russia slid as he turned the corner, running to keep up with the child and staggered to a stop as the child was suddenly nowhere to be seen. The footprints stopped in the middle of the alley, as if the child had suddenly ascended in flight. Russia spun, looking for signs of the child and listened carefully. All he could hear was the whirls of wind and the distant chimes of the bell, signaling it was eleven at night. There was a clatter. Russia turned his gaze back to the alley, looking about the end of the brick wall. There seemed to be an iridescent glow flickering back there, behind few barrels. Pearls of light shone against the brick, as if a scaly fish were twisting in the light and Russia stepped nearer, cautious as he saw the boy standing by a woman kneeling, looking at his hands in apparent concern.

Russia froze, stunned by the sight. The woman looked like a vaporous spirit, he long robes floating as though made of mist and her skin glittered with an iridescent sheen. The light was from her and she kissed the boy on the top of the head. Russia watched horrified as he trembled and faded into gray soot that was quickly swept up by the wind. Her eyes turned upon him, a soft blue of inhuman nature. Before Russia could even step back, she descended on him, her robe fluttering about her as she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into the air with a gleeful cry.

With a cry of his own, filled with curses, he stared as the city below grew smaller and smaller until he was above the clouds, gazing into the pale beauty of the moon. He looked up at the woman holding him and she gazed down with a smile, letting him go. Russia cried out, feeling himself drop, but stared in panic as instead he started to float. "Spirit!" he cried out in a mix of anger and fear. "What is the meaning of this?"

Apparently the fact that this had all been said in Russian did not bother her, nor did his tone seem to upset her. Her hair swirled about her and her robes fluttered as she rose up, framed by the glow of the moon. "I am a spirit of Christmas," she called to him, swooping down in a graceful leap and looked at him sadly.

"I must have drank more than I thought," was all he replied.

The Spirit, for what else could she have been save an alcohol induced dream, continued to look sad and shook her head. "Ivan Braginsky, a man born of the cold and loneliness."

"How do you know of my name?" Russia asked, his tone tart.

The Spirit continued, "A man whose nature is full of ice, but his heart is warm, like a fire within a hearth. Why do you demand such loneliness?"

"I do not demand loneliness," he said angrily.

The Spirit shook her head and grabbed his hand, pulling him away from the cloud he was seated on and gliding down towards the heart of the city. "My brethren have been watching you, and they fear what a man of such power and loneliness will born." Russia would have retorted something, but was watching in weary fear as they began to speed up towards the ground at a rate that would surely kill him. "So we will try and show you, good sir, what it is you are missing."

She laughed gaily suddenly and Russia stared at her and back to the ground, attempting to pull his hand away as they suddenly slammed into the cobbled street.

Rather than the snapping of bones and bitter death, as Russia expected, he found himself lying on a cold floor, but his face and body warm. He opened his violet eyes carefully, listening to the crackle of a fire. He opened his eyes, and found himself staring at a wooden ceiling. Slowly, and a bit wobbly like a drunken sailor finding his sea legs, he stood up looking about the room, fingers skimming against a rough knotted wood table as he used it for support, looking about the room in search for the Spirit. He was going to wring her iridescent neck.

Russia looked about the darkened room. A few sprigs of green sat arranged around by the windows and over the mantel. Already the thin white pine was browning from the heat of the fire. Russia stood up fully, and noticed the pale blond hair by a desk near the corner of the room. It looked cold there, sitting in the shadows of the fire and near the window. More importantly though was the fact that the Spirit was standing over the young boy, and Russia walked briskly to her.

She held up a pale slender finger though, as though to hush the words that bubbled to his lips. "Do you not recognize this home?" she asked.

"Should I?" he asked, taking a brief look at the room again with a frown.

"You spent many Christmases and New Years here alone," she said simply, nodding down to the young man asleep at the desk.

Russia looked down, studying the boy closely and looked up again at the Spirit. "Is this a dream?"

The Spirit continued on as though nothing had been said. "You wrote a letter every year to your sister, begging of her arrival."

"The roads are thick with snow and she had her own duties to attend to," Russia said simply, though the answer was an automatic one.

The Spirit gazed at him with her blue eyes, blinking once and turning back to the image of a younger Russia. "You wrote to her every year though, and sometimes," there was a knock at the door, a sharp rapping that startled the sleeping boy and sent him running to the front door, pulling it wide and laughing as his elder sister swooped down and pulled him into a hug. Ukraine's blonde hair was longer, pulled back into an intricate braid and her nose and cheeks were red from the chilly night. They were both bubbling with joyful words, and Russia smiled at the scene. "I wonder why you no longer write her?" the Spirit said, floating along the edge of his peripheral and sighing happily.

Her cold hands encircled his wrist and she sang, "Come along, another place to go!"

The warm room faded, twirling in a vibrant green tunnel until he found himself standing in a room not unlike the one before. There was more finesse to the room, as the brass-plated mirror showed. A clock ticked quietly, the heartbeat of the silent home. Russia landed on his feet this time, wobbling slightly and nearly collided into the small desk near the fire, where a young boy with blond hair sat scribbling slowly, looking to the door between every few words.

Russia slowly encircled the child, watching him carefully as well as keeping an eye on the Spirit. "Is this America?" he asked.

"It is. Many years ago just as you were shown an echo of yourself years ago."

Russia said nothing, looking down to the letter America seemed to be writing. It was a note for Arthur, begging him to come back to see him and mentioning something about how the Brown's wife was having a baby and other affair of the New England town. A knock sounded at the door, sending Russia reeling back as the young nation rocketed out from his chair, gleefully knocking back the wood chair and ran to the door.

He pulled it open, though it was no one Russia knew. It was obviously not who America had been expecting as the boy's face fell.

"Alfred Jones?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"The missus and I wish to ask if you'll be joining us for Christmas dinner, as it seems your brother has not yet arrived to the port."

Russia looked back to the Spirit, noticing her walking by the desk and looking at the letter. "He spent many Christmases alone as well. His brother could not come always just as your sister could not."

"Why show me this, Spirit?" Russia asked, leaning against the wall and watching as America slowly declined the offer, admitting he didn't believe Arthur would get there in time, but he still had to be home to put the kettle on in the odd chance.

"Because you are not the only one who harbors a bitter loneliness."

She stepped behind him, grasping his forearm. "Come, there are other places to go."

Again the world twirled with bright colors, though he could hear a tinny melody swirling about, until he found himself sitting on a piano in his younger sister's home.

He dropped down, looking about the room. It seemed festive in there, with a knitted afghan draped over the couch that his elder sister was curled under. They looked quiet, a little reserved, but happy. He could smell the punch Belarus was fond of simmering in the kitchen over, laden heavily with cloves, orange, and cinnamon. He watched as Belarus began to play the small piano, playing a Christmas carol without signing the words.

"Your family seems to spend Christmas together well, though they miss you," the Spirit said, looking around at the festive greens by the mantle. There was a solemn faced picture of Belarus and Russia together, a gift from a few years ago. Lithuania walked in, handing both Ukraine and Belarus cups of the heated punch from the kitchen. Soon followed Estonia, holding a plate of some breads and spreads of both meat and cheese.

Russia felt a jealous twinge in his heart. He had wanted to spend Christmas with his sisters, but the boat had left him stranded in New York. It had been a while since he had spent it with them. "I would have spent Christmas with them this year had I been able," he lamented finally.

"Would you?" asked the Spirit, her face nonplused as he turned around sharply.

"Of course!"

"But you did not spend it with them for the past few years."

"I have been busy with other matters," Russia said, and turned back to watch his sisters celebrate Christmas without him.

"Just as you are busy tonight?" she asked him, dragging him by his elbow as the vision began to fade, until he found himself in a darkened parlor, finding himself looking at a silent America staring at the fire.

Russia didn't say anything, as though he were afraid even a single word would shatter the vision. The other nation stood up, and quietly stoked the fire. There was no rambunctious feast as Russia had expected the other nation. There was no party at all; just the lonely crackle of the fire and a despondent man standing and looking into the flames. "Alone on Christmas again," America sighed to himself, obviously not sensing Russia and the Spirit standing in the room. "Even Russia wont spend it with me," he muttered to the silent room, pausing and swallowing this fact before turning and pouring himself a glass of scotch.

"Merry Christmas," America said, a raise of the glass before polishing it off.

Russia watched silently, and turned to the Spirit floating next to him. "Why does he spend it alone?"

"Why do you spend yours alone?" she asked and turned, looking at him curiously. Her face softened and she glided away towards America. "You're despondent at seeing him alone on Christmas," she observed and spun into the air, "you care for him, but you wont spend the holiday with him?"

"It's too intimate," Russia observed.

"No one should spend Christmas alone," she said and glided back down, gaining speed quickly and flowing through his chest.

The air was suddenly ripped from his lungs, and he was sent careening onto his back. Startled, he sat up, propped on his elbows and listened to the snow crunch beneath his weight. He blinked looking about. It was bright outside, but he found himself sitting in the alley it had all began. He touched his chest, looking down as if afraid the Spirit would still be protruding from his body. He scrambled up quickly, looking about him and suddenly a laugh bubbled from his lips. He stopped, surprised at his own laughter, and spun around again before walking out of the narrow passage.

It was still bitterly cold and all he was missing his greatcoat and dinner jacket. He looked around him, surprised at how bright the daylight was. Snow drifted off his head as he began to walk back down the road, thinking about the Spirit. The images faded quickly though, and he was soon left with only a semi-lucid daydream of the whole affair. He found himself standing under the bare elm once again. Perhaps the dream had only been caused by a mortal spirit, man's friend and winter's boon companion- alcohol.

Still, Russia felt somewhat different somehow and he found himself knocking on America's door. The hefty wood door was pried open, not by a butler, which was expected for a neighborhood like his, but by the nation himself. Russia found himself lost for words and he found himself looking into pale summer blue eyes.

"Ivan?" America asked, using his more human name should anyone be near, a flash of bright emotion swept across his face and he stood up a little taller. "What are you doing here?"

"What day is it?" Russia asked, after working his jaw. The whole dream was leaving him somewhat dazed.

"What?"

"The day."

"Really?"

"Would you tell me the day, Alfred?" he said tersely.

"It's Christmas," the shorter man replied, cautious as though he were dealing with a man who had lost his wits.

"Christmas." Russia repeated. Had he spent the whole night in the snow?

"Christ- is that all you're wearing?" America asked, concern making his tone rise high. "You're going to get sick out here, get inside Braginsky."

Russia could not even retort before America had pulled him in by his shirtsleeves, talking more to himself than Russia as he pushed him down into the hall and closed his own door tightly. "What the hell are you doing without a jacket? Or a coat?"

Russia looked around the room, ignoring the question. Suddenly icy hands were placed on his forehead and he jerked back, frowning at the young American. "What are you doing?" he growled.

"You're either with fever or drunk. I can't tell."

"I'm fine. I may have drank a bad spirit the night before, but I'm fine."

America gave him a look of distrust, sighing slowly and then tensing as he realized his hand was still on Russia's neck, originally to gauge his temperature, but in the narrow hall it was almost an intimate embrace. He spun around, muttering to himself and walked stiffly into the parlor. Russia followed, curious from the reaction.

"Are you sure you are all right?" Russia asked and watched as America began to move books and pillows around the room, never looking back to the other man.

"Fine" he said.

Russia sat down, looking about the room and to the fireplace. Above was a clock that read half past ten. "Is your invitation still open?"

"My what?"

"Dinner."

"Dinner?"

"America, are you asking or have you turned into a parrot?" Russia looked out the bay window, noting the greenery that framed the carved wood.

"No, I just- you said you had better things to do." America stood by the mantle, looking at Russia curiously. His fingers delved into his pockets as he nervously played with the seams. Russia stayed silent, waiting for the other's answer. He was surprised when America suddenly burst out in laughter, and clapped his hands. "Dear God, it's Christmas. Of course– dinner!" he laughed again, scratching at the back of his neck. "It, well, I guess I never expected you to come. I haven't had company in a while, save Matt a few years back."

He smiled though and Russia felt his heart pause, just for a second with that sunshine smile. "Well I'll have to get a chicken, I'm afraid that I didn't ask for a goose, so chicken will do, if that's all right." He looked merry and almost seemed to run into the hall like a little child willed with glee. Russia chuckled at that, and rubbed his hands. He was still a bit cold. America was calling out the stuff he'd make, and would just jaunt over to the market for, and that though he was low on vodka, he had plenty of rum for eggnog and they'd be merry before dark.

Russia rose from the chair, following America into the kitchen and sighing at the energy of the other man. But all was well, for while he may not have minded being alone, no one else deserved to be alone for Christmas.


End file.
